


Strands of Moonlight

by gildedfrost



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Babies, Good Parent Amanda (Detroit: Become Human), HIV/AIDS, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, M/M, Mpreg, Secret Identity, Secrets, Trans Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27193814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildedfrost/pseuds/gildedfrost
Summary: “No,” Connor whispers, shaking the stick like it’s going to change the result. He sets it on the sink, grabs another one, and tries again, only to find the same blue lines on that one. Sitting on the toilet in defeat, he leans back and presses his lips into a thin line. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Alright. This is fine. Totally fine. Thousands of people go through this every year. What’s the worst that can happen?”Admittedly, having kids is not something that was ever on his radar. He feels queasy just thinking about being pregnant. But worse than that, he knows that it means there’s a timer on either his relationship with Hank or his secrecy.There won’t be any hiding that the children are werewolves.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 11
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [sheepishwolfy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepishwolfy/) for tossing around ideas with me, and to people on twitter for being so supportive and encouraging as I write this.
> 
> There is a small chance the rating may be bumped up to E later on.

“No,” Connor whispers, shaking the stick like it’s going to change the result. He sets it on the sink, grabs another one, and tries again, only to find the same blue lines on that one. Sitting on the toilet in defeat, he leans back and presses his lips into a thin line.

His first thought is that he should’ve been on birth control, even though he never found one that worked well for him when he did try a couple of brands years ago. The next is that they weren’t careful enough, but that thought is ridiculous; they’ve always used condoms. Between that and Connor’s testosterone, they should have been fine. Only the tiniest chance for him to get pregnant.

Apparently it’s enough, if his growing belly is enough to go by.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Alright. This is fine. Totally fine. Thousands of people go through this every year. What’s the worst that can happen?”

Admittedly, having kids is not something that was ever on his radar. He feels queasy just thinking about being pregnant. But worse than that, he knows that it means there’s a timer on either his relationship with Hank or his secrecy.

There won’t be any hiding that the children are werewolves. (There will be more than one, he knows, because a single pup in a litter is almost unheard of.) They won’t have control over their transformations, shifting by instinct with the waxing and waning of the moon, and already Connor’s worried about his place here in the middle of Detroit. Finding a place outside for them to play would be difficult without a day trip, but he doesn’t want to keep them cooped up inside forever, either.

He sighs sharply through his nose. Here he is, thinking about his future children years down the line, when he hasn’t even decided if he’s keeping them yet. There’s always the option not to: Avoid the questions, retain his current lifestyle, not deal with the stress and consequences of pregnancy. He knows how physically taxing it can be, and he is distinctly aware of the mental discomfort creeping up on him, the discordance between how his body works and how he often wishes it worked.

He sits there for minutes thinking it over. The impact on his job, his family, his relationship with Hank, his entire lifestyle… Financially, he might be able to keep up, but the house payments were determined without kids in the equation.

In the end, now isn’t the right time to make any decisions. He’ll wait to tell Hank about the pregnancy once he’s made his choice. The only thing he can do right now is set aside some time to think—later, when he’s fully awake—and sort out HIV testing. There shouldn’t be any chance of transmission, but this news has him on edge, and it’s been a while, anyway.

He wraps up the tests and dumps them in the trash. Washing his hands and splashing water on his face, he forces himself to think about more immediate things like what to have for breakfast and lunch, bills that need to be paid, and whether he should slip back into bed with Hank after putting on a pot of coffee.

The last one is an easy decision. He crawls back under the covers and curls up close to Hank, fitting against him like they were made for each other, and smiles when Hank kisses his brow.

“Something wake you up?” Hank asks, whiskers brushing pleasantly against Connor’s skin.

“Just my bladder. I put on coffee.” Connor closes his eyes and nestles against Hank’s shoulder. “Let’s have five more minutes.”

Hank hums and wraps an arm around him, holding him close.

* * *

“Congratulations,” Simon says, setting aside the ultrasound wand. “It looks like they’re healthy and doing well. You should be about ten weeks along. Do you want to know how many there are?”

“No, I would like a complete surprise to the amount of children that will wreak havoc on my finances,” Connor says dryly. He pulls his shirt back down over his belly and sits up straight on his couch. Despite the stress he’s under, he’s thankful Simon made the time to see him halfway across town this evening.

“I’m sure they won’t be that much of a nightmare.”

“I’m sure they will.” Connor stands, gesturing to Simon to follow him into the kitchen as he rummages through a cupboard. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“Coffee. You shouldn’t be drinking, either. You know that, right?” Simon crosses his arms and leans on the back of a chair.

Connor pauses, his fingers loosely around a bottle of honey whiskey. He’d forgotten. “Coffee it is,” he says, shutting the cupboard. “How many?”

“One sugar, two cream.”

“Very funny. I have vanilla coffee creamer and that’s it.” He sets up the coffee, scooping it into the filter with a spoon and mixing in some decaf so he can get to sleep tonight.

Simon smiles gently. “That will do fine.” He takes a deep breath, then says, “There are five.”

The spoon hits the counter with a clang. “Five?”

“It’s a lot, but not an unusual size for a litter. There shouldn’t be any complications that result from having this many.”

Connor presses a hand to his belly. It doesn’t feel like there are five babies there, but he knows they must be so tiny right now. “We didn’t even plan for one.”

“Does your mate know?”

“Not yet. He’s human. I don’t even know if I want to keep them yet.”

They stand quietly as the coffee drips into the pot, the warm, comforting smell filling the kitchen. Connor knows Simon will help him whatever his decision. While his instinct is to say that he absolutely, positively does not want to be pregnant, a slowly growing part of him wants to take the dive and start a family. With enough help, he could manage it. He has his mother and brothers. He might have Hank. All of their connections—a pack of sorts, which loses a little of its definition once one considers that not everyone is a werewolf—have always been willing to lend a hand with any hardship or childcare.

“I’ll talk to him,” Connor says. “Not all at once. One thing or the other. There’s no hiding what the babies are, is there?”

Simon smiles sympathetically. “They’ll shift with the moon until they learn to control it. That includes the last month of pregnancy.” He takes his phone from his pocket and taps the screen a few times. “You should have 20 weeks left, which puts your due date at about October 12. A full moon.”

Connor groans. “They’ll come out looking like puppies, then.”

“You’ll have to shift for the birth, yourself. No hand-holding or anything like that. Nothing I can do about the pain, either.”

“Fantastic,” he mutters.

“If you choose to terminate, you’ll want to make that decision within the next week or two.” Simon properly sits down on the chair as the steady drip of the coffee slows to a stop. “I don’t intend to rush you, but the earlier, the better.”

Connor pours them both cups of coffee, putting a generous amount of creamer in both of them before bringing them to the table. “I get it. I just need to sit with the information for a few days. I know I have the means and support, but… You know. It’s a big thing. It doesn’t even feel real.”

Simon accepts his coffee, downing half the cup in one go. “Let me know, okay? And don’t forget to tell your mother before she drags the information out of me.”

Connro snorts. “If she knows to ask you, she already knows what’s up. Don’t worry, I’ll tell Amanda soon.” He heaves a sigh. “After I’ve spoken with Hank.”

“Hank?” Simon asks, raising his eyebrows. “The ex-cop librarian?”

“You visit this library? Wait—You know him?”

“It’s bigger than the branch near me. I’ve seen him at the library café a few times. He seems nice enough. I wouldn’t have thought he was your type.”

Connor takes a sip, letting the hot coffee warm him from inside, and leans back in his seat. “Because he’s older?”

“No, because he keeps reading questionable philosophy publications.”

“Seriously?”

Simon shrugs. “He’s having a Freud phase. And, yes, he’s older.”

“We get along better than you might think.”

“Clearly!”

That prompts a laugh from Connor, releasing some of the evening’s tension. He’s glad to move on to other topics for a while, as if Simon is just here for a casual chat and coffee, falling into more comfortable discussion instead of contemplating an inevitable decision.

Once Simon takes off, Connor heads straight to bed, dreaming of puppies, hospitals, and Hank’s warm embrace.

* * *

Connor makes the decision to keep the children without anyone else’s input.

Practically, he can find answers to almost every hypothetical situation. Money might be tight, but everything else would be manageable. The decision comes down to his own health and his relationship with Hank. He trusts Simon to help him track his physical health, and mentally, he can push through his fear and dysphoria knowing that there’s a light at the end. Hank…

He thinks he’s falling in love with Hank, but wanting to hold onto that relationship doesn’t seem like a sound enough reason to end the tiny lives inside of him. If it came to it, he would rather nurture them than lose Hank, as painful as the thought is. He doesn’t have strong enough reasons to convince him not to keep them, and given the relatively low numbers of werewolves out in the world, he thinks that makes them even more precious.

Making that decision isn’t the same thing as commitment to raising the children, which is going to require a whole lot of thought and consideration before he can say, confidently, that he’s in this for the long haul. Thankfully, he has a few months to come to terms with everything and make all the preparations he can think of. He takes a deep breath, reassures himself that everything will be okay, and moves forward.

He sends Simon a text first so the nurse can have that off his shoulders. Then he considers telling his family about it, but decides against it; Hank should know first.

It’s that thought which leads him to invite Hank out for a date on Friday two weeks later when he finally catches a break from work. The place is a bar and grill they’ve been to a few times, nothing fancy but a step up from their usual dinners out. They place their orders, sip their drinks, and share a plate of coconut shrimp.

Connor is horrible at small talk. It’s clear by the way Hank looks at him that he’s failing to keep the conversation casual. Other thoughts keep slipping from his mind, overtaken by thoughts of children and babies and, inevitably, the worry that Hank will leave him. It makes him anxious, and anxiety is something he rarely shows, but he thinks Hank sees that under the awkwardness.

The plates are set before them: Hank’s fancy burger with fries and coleslaw, and Connor’s steak with asparagus and potatoes. Connor digs in, hoping the food will soothe his nerves, and Hank speaks before the first bite is even in his mouth. “I’m not sure that even touched the grill.”

Connor turns the fork toward him, the slice of steak speared upon it dripping onto the plate. “The outside is perfectly grilled,” he says.

“You sure it’s not gonna moo at me?”

“What, you want to try?” Connor offers him the fork, which Hank predictably makes a face at. “You’re missing out.” He pops the slice into his own mouth. He doesn’t always ask for his steak done blue, but with the full moon approaching, his tastes have shifted accordingly. It would not be appropriate to eat completely raw meat in front of Hank, but the socially acceptable option is still delicious.

“One of my former coworkers was at the library today,” Hank says after the first bite of his burger. “He was looking for picture books for his kid. I haven’t seen him in ages, didn’t even know his wife was pregnant before I quit. It’s funny; I never thought about him being a father, but he seems suited to it.”

“Are you friends?”

“Not really. We just know each other from work.” Hank shrugs. “Maybe we should be. I don’t know.”

“I don’t see why not. It would be good for you to keep up connections.” Connor knows Hank’s mental health has been difficult for some years. He doesn’t want to be overbearing, but he tries to support his boyfriend as much as he can, encouraging him to get out of his shell and make healthy choices. Hank teases him for it, so Connor figures they’re even.

Instead of pushing, he moves the conversation in a different direction. “Did you meet his kid?”

“Chris said Marie, his wife, was watching Damien, so I only saw pictures. Probably for the best. I don’t do well with kids,” Hank says, before diving into more of his food.

“Never wanted any of your own?” Connor asks, picking at his own food. His tongue seems to press more firmly against his teeth, and that’s when he realizes they’ve grown, extending without his conscious decision.

The change isn’t disruptive or highly visible, so he leaves it be, but it immediately makes him mindful of the rest of his body, hitting the brakes on any other instinct to transform. It’s a testament to how comfortable he is around Hank that his subconscious control over his own nature lapsed at all.

Hank takes a drink of water and clears his throat. “I used to. Things changed, and now I don’t. It’s a long story.”

“Could things change again?”

“Hell no.” Hank pops a fry in his mouth. “Maybe you want kids someday, Connor, but I can’t do that again. There’s no chance.”

Something prickles at the back of Connor’s neck. “Again?”

“We’re not talking about this.”

“Okay.” Connor sets down his fork and folds his hands together atop the table. “I’m pregnant.”

Hank freezes, burger halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“We should probably send a complaint to the condom company. I thought I was feeling off for a while, but it turns out I’m pregnant. Surprise?” Connor smiles at him, awkward and a little strained, and hopes his canines don’t look as large as they feel. It’s clearly not what Hank wants to hear. “I’ve already seen a doctor.”

“You’re pregnant.” Hank wipes his hands with a napkin, then mimics Connor’s posture.

“Yes. I’ve gained some weight. It should be noticeable by now, especially without a shirt.”

“Huh.” He stares down at his hands. “And your questions… You want to keep it? Or are we discussing that now?”

Connor’s smile tightens. “I’m keeping them. That isn’t up for discussion.”

“Them? Christ.” A grimace crosses Hank’s face and he turns away, pressing his mouth into a thin line before looking back at Connor. “I didn’t think you’d be comfortable with something like that.”

“I’m not. I’m profoundly uncomfortable carrying them and I’m terrified of how my life will change. But I’ve made my decision.” Connor takes a deep breath. To his surprise, he’s already fighting off tears. “You need to make your own decision. It doesn’t have to be at this moment. I know you didn’t sign up to have kids with me, so if you leave, I’ll understand. But if you stay, I have to ask that you do your best to help raise our kids.”

Hank runs a hand through his hair. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but here. “You’re sure they’re mine?”

Connor’s mouth drops open. Of all the things Hank could say, he didn’t expect this. “Are you seriously asking me that?” he asks sharply. “Yes, Hank, they’re yours. I don’t cheat.”

“We’ve never had a condom break—”

“Not that we know of. That doesn’t mean there couldn’t have been a microtear, or if our hands transferred sperm, or any other small mistake that led to this unlikely situation.” Some of the other diners are starting to look their way, so Connor lowers his voice. “We haven’t even been together half a year. I know it’s a lot to ask for your commitment. But I care about you, deeply, and I want you to stay in my life.”

Hank scoffs. “Not enough to ask for my opinion, apparently.”

“That isn’t your decision to make!” Connor snaps. More heads turn their way. He knows another outburst might get them kicked out, so he resolves to bite his tongue no matter how bullheaded Hank gets.

“Apparently not,” Hank says frostily.

“Think about it.” Connor slices himself another bite of meat. The knife scrapes harshly against the plate. “Just think about it for a couple weeks, will you? This was a surprise for me as well.”

Hank gives him a long look before picking up his burger, almost disinterested as he picks at the rest of it and the sides, and Connor tells himself he’ll be okay if Hank leaves him over this. He’ll have to be. He can only take solace in the knowledge that he wouldn’t need to share his secret and risk losing him over something that can never be changed.

* * *

Connor, his brothers, and Kara take their usual trip outside the city on the evening of the full moon. They’re the odd ones out, living further inside the city than most, and much of their time with other wolves ends up around the full moon. There’s no one at their usual spot when they reach the woods, but they won’t be hard to find later.

They park, strip, transform, and run.

The freedom is exhilarating. The shift is always under their control, but nearly effortless at this phase of the moon, and the yearning to embrace this side of themselves is overpowering. Connor lets adrenaline guide him, running loose through the forest, and only when the edge is taken off does he take the time to appreciate his surroundings.

It’s like a second home to him. Being out here at night feels more natural than walking through a park. Hunting—though he doesn’t always indulge—is more fulfilling than finding food in his fridge. The interactions with his kin work on a different level, communicating things that cannot be said but unable to speak words. Fucking…

Well, he’s keen on the particulars of werewolf dicks, but now that he’s got Hank, he’s content to relegate that experience to the dildos in his closet.

Everything goes perfectly fine until they regroup just before dawn. Connor reaches their meeting place last, the rest of them lounging on the dewy grass. Others might say that they look like monsters out of a nightmare, with their large size, lanky limbs, clawd hands, and not-entirely-canine body structure, but sometimes, he thinks there’s nothing more beautiful than the peace that they share when they come together like this.

Peace that is broken the moment Silas spots him.

All he sees is a blur of brown before his brother tackles him. An _oof_ leaves Connor as he falls to the ground. He growls and nips at Silas, who simply lies atop him in an attempt to stifle his movement. It works, but only because Connor is exhausted after an entire night out. Connor whines in defeat and stays where he is until Silas rises.

Silas nudges at Connor’s side, his nose wet as it bumps against the fur, and that’s when he realizes his mistake. His belly appears flat, given the relative size of his form now, but the others can smell the hormonal changes in him.

Connor bites at Silas, who steps out of the way and backs off, tilting his head as he watches Connor. Before they can start a real argument, there’s a cracking off to the side as Kara begins to shift back, the white fur withdrawing into her body as her bones rearrange. It’s a good enough cue for the rest of them to follow suit.

Connor barely reaches his clothing bag before Silas is at his side, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” he says, turning Connor to face him. They both have patchy fur across their bodies that hasn’t disappeared yet. “Are you on new meds or something? Your scent’s different.”

Connor blinks at him. “I—no,” he says. “I’m off T, but… Well, nevermind.” If none of them realize what the change in scent means, then he can set up the family dinner he was planning to announce it at.

Unfortunately, Silas’ eyes drop to his belly. His mouth opens as if to say something, and then it clicks shut, his eyes opening as the pieces fit together. “Holy shit, are you…?”

He swats Silas with his underwear. “I’m not having this conversation naked.”

“We’ve been naked all night. It must be Hank, right? The guy you’ve been seeing a while?”

“I’m cold. Go get dressed,” Connor says, turning away to start pulling his clothes back on. “Unless you want to talk about your new tramp stamp?”

Silas clucks his tongue. “Look who’s being judgy.”

“There’s a story there and I want to hear it,” Kara calls from where she’s almost finished getting dressed.

“I liked it, so I got it.” Silas relents and gives Connor space, trudging away. “And my boyfriend thinks it’s hot.”

“I don’t want to hear about your boyfriend’s kinks. Come on, get moving, I’m starving,” Aiden says.

They manage to get back into the car before Connor’s subjected to further questioning. Silas barely gets the car going before he glances into the backseat and says, “Spill.”

“Don’t I get a nap first?” Connor leans back, the headrest cushioning his head, and self-consciously rests a hand on the small bump his belly now has.

“How long?” Aiden asks from beside him. “We didn’t notice last time, so it must have been recent.”

“Three months. I only found out a couple weeks ago for sure.”

Aiden reaches out a hand. “May I?”

Connor sighs. “Fine, but you won’t feel anything.” He guides Aiden’s hand to his belly, and his brother spends a minute feeling the shape of him, gently learning the way he’s changed. “I’m due in October.”

“How many?”

“Five.”

“Five!” Silas laughs. “No fucking way. That’s too many.”

Kara turns in her seat to look back. “You are going to have your hands full. I can barely keep up with Alice.”

“And Alice isn’t even a werewolf,” Aiden says. He smiles warmly, face beaming, and the dawn’s light glints off of his sunglasses “Congratulations, Connor. I can’t wait to meet them.”

“Thanks.” It warms Connor to know that his family, at least, is happy for him, after Hank’s not-so-great reaction. He still doesn’t know if he’s going to be a single father or not. He aches to have that answer, but he can’t rush Hank.

“Will they still be, you know. Werewolves? Since he’s human?” Silas asks.

“Simon seemed to think so.”

Aiden hums. “Is this a thing he knows or a guess that he’s making?”

“He’s a midwife, he’s had plenty of experience with pups. I trust him,” Connor says. Not that he exactly knows of any babies born from interspecies unions, but presumably the kids will be werewolves. He’ll be surprised if they aren’t. “I just have to tell Hank what I am. Easy.”

“Hey,” Kara says softly. “You know any of us will be there for you if you need us.”

“I have to tell him myself. But if it goes south… yeah.” He bites his lip. “He’s a good man.”

“Tell us how it goes, okay? We’ve got your back.” Aiden squeezes his shoulder.

“Yeah.” Connor closes his eyes and sinks back, ready to doze off in the time it takes them to get to Waffle House. “I haven’t told Amanda yet, so you all better not. She deserves to hear it from me.”

“I’ll let you deliver that bombshell,” Silas says, and Aiden nods in agreement.

* * *

Connor taps away at a report on his laptop, putting together information regarding their latest case. Markus never pushes him to work from home, but Connor shares some of the lawyer’s passion and finds himself drawn to his work when he has little else to do, and he won’t hesitate to drop everything and take notes if an idea hits him.

He’ll admit he may be a workaholic at times. But he takes breaks, and sometimes he even listens to music as he works, so it’s fine. Even if his eyelids are trying to droop. He takes another swig of coffee and glances at the time. 7:03PM. Two days after the full moon, he’s still exhausted after two sleepless nights in a row out under the moon, but he hates to put anything on hold because of that. He’ll sleep a full eight hours tonight before returning to the office tomorrow.

When there’s a knock at his front door, at first, he thinks he’s imagining it. Taking his earbuds out just in case, he listens, and when the knock comes again, he groans and shuts the lid of the laptop, leaving it on the kitchen table. He’s too goddamn tired to deal with people today.

He opens the door, ready to turn away whoever it is if it’s not important, and comes face to face with a bouquet of flowers.

“...Hi, Hank.” Connor looks him up and down. He’s dressed up nice, even wearing a tie. “What’s the occasion?”

“Can I come in?”

Connor steps back and opens the door further.

It’s only been a week, but he’s missed Hank. His late night calls and texts, the occasional lunch or dinner, the closeness and intimacy… They’ve carved out a space in each other’s lives so fully that an absence like this stings. Letting Hank back into his life feels natural, like something is being fixed, a feeling akin to returning home.

That doesn’t mean he’s not still upset, but Connor holds his tongue. Hank obviously has something to say. “Takeout would’ve been a more convenient gift.”

“It would’ve been presumptuous,” Hank counters, “but we can get delivery. If you don’t feel like kicking my ass out, I mean.”

“And give up free food? Set those on the coffee table, I’ll find a home for them later.” The bouquet is sizable, filled with flowers he doesn’t think he can correctly identify in all shades of blue and purple, and he’s flattered by the gesture.

Hank places the bouquet as directed, then spares a glance for the sofa. “You dogsitting?”

“The fur.” Hank gestures to the sofa, then to a couple spots around the room, and now Connor notes the shed fur around the place. “I know you don’t have a dog yourself.”

Ah, right. “Yeah. Dogsitting. I haven’t cleaned up yet.” Connor clears his throat. The day before the full moon, he’d transformed at home, not wanting to resist the instinct but too busy to head out of the city.

“Hell, I won’t judge. You’ve seen my place.”

“Let’s sit down,” Connor says, joining him on the couch. The two of them sit at opposite ends, both of them stiff and the atmosphere uncertain.

“You were right,” Hank says after a moment. “The choice here is yours. I’m sorry I was a dick about it when I should’ve been happy for you instead. I haven’t got any right to demand a vote in what you do with your body and your unborn kids. I think… I think I would’ve liked to be alongside you when you were making that decision, but maybe you made the right choice by not asking my opinion.”

Connor nods, but his heart sinks at the words. “And?”

“I need time to think. This is… It’s a lot to commit to.”

“Yeah. I get it.” Tentatively, he reaches for Hank’s hand, and Hank grips his gently. As upset as he still is with Hank, he can’t help but feel some of that slide away. “It’s daunting to me, too.”

“Doubly so with twins, huh?” Hank says, lips lifting at one end.

Connor lets out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, something like that,” he says, letting go of Hank’s hand and wringing his own together. “But, uh, quintuplets.”

The house falls silent.

“...Come again?”

“Quintuplets.” Connor plasters a smile on his face. “Five babies, Hank.”

Hank stares at him. “No.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I know it’s highly improbable.” For humans, that is. “It won’t be easy. Being a father in the first place won’t be, let alone having five of them.”

“No shit. You’re sure there’s five? Five fucking kids?” Hank asks, leaning forward. “Five?”

“Yes. Simon even showed me on the ultrasound the other day. He wants to keep an eye on them since—since there’s five of them.” Connor glances away. Human-werewolf offspring aren’t common. They could be more prone to complications than pureblooded wolves.

“Yeah. Wow. Christ.” Hank runs a hand through his hair. “Listen, Connor. That’s a lot of kids. I’m past my prime and my health’s gone to shit. I’m an alcoholic, I could develop AIDS someday, and I don’t want that to impact your—our kids. Shit, did you get tested?”

“I’m negative. Might be time to think about PrEP, though. Hank, no matter your concerns about yourself, if you want this, then I want you with me. They’ll do better with two dads than one, right?”

“I wasn’t a good father when I had a kid before. I don’t want or deserve another chance.”

Connor blinks. “You have a kid?” He thinks back as far as he can, trying to see if he can identify a time when Hank mentioned this, but comes up blank.

“Had. He’s gone.” Hank takes a shaky breath, and somehow he looks so much more tired than when he arrived. “His name was Cole. It’s been a couple years. As you can probably tell, I’m shit at coping.”

There isn’t anything Connor can think to say to that. “I’m sorry,” he says, because anything more wouldn’t be adequate, but no acknowledgement would be worse. “Does that make this more difficult?”

Hank snorts. “What doesn’t it make more difficult? I’m not giving you a no straight up. You got my knee-jerk reaction last week. I gotta think about this a bit. Half of me is saying to run away from this, and the other half is telling me I can’t pull that shit on you. I can’t say yes if I might just turn tail the first chance I get.”

“Is this going to be a situation where you waffle forever?” Connor asks. It is perhaps too pointed a question, but he’s done that before and he’s seen Hank do it, too, in different aspects of his life. “Because I can’t do that, either.”

“I can promise I won’t do that. I’ve even got an appointment with my therapist, which is probably well overdue anyway. I don’t want to fuck up your life, Connor. I hope I haven’t already done so by getting you pregnant,” he adds, nodding towards Connor’s belly.

“We can do what ifs until the end of time. What if we were more careful, or I were on birth control or had a hysto, or you got the snip… I don’t care for it. This isn’t on any single one of us and it’s definitely not ruining my life.” Connor looks into Hank’s eyes. “Thank you for stopping by tonight.”

“I would’ve texted you ahead of time, but I didn’t want to risk you getting pissed off at me in advance. I’m just glad you let me in.” Hank relaxes into the sofa, sinking into the cushions. “How about Lebanese for dinner? You know that place right by the river?”

“I know I have no self-restraint when it comes to falafel.” A natural smile makes its way to Connor’s face. The hard conversations aren’t over, but it’s nice to pretend that everything is alright, slipping back into the comfortable dynamic they had before.

Later, when he leans against Hank as a movie plays, Hank’s arm wrapped around him, he wonders if he isn’t making a mistake by trying to hold onto a human so tightly. Connor’s wolf nature never wants to let go of a mate, and Hank is no exception. He just hopes Hank accepts that side of him when he sees it.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s past nine when Hank ends his shift at the library. He grumbles to himself about the late hour, full well knowing that he doesn’t have anything to do tonight and he’s pulled longer shifts back on the force. Hell, he might have already been a few drinks in by now if he’d left earlier, given all the shit that’s been going through his head.

Calling this pregnancy situation his worst nightmare would be an exaggeration. No, the worst is the intrusive thoughts that come with it: Visions of children getting run over in the street or taken by strangers, or all of them being stillborn, or… Fuck. Connor tells him about new lives being brought into the world and all he can fixate on is how they’re going to leave it.

He looks at his car in the lot, thinks about the stale takeout in his fridge, and turns to walk down the block instead. He makes the monumental decision to head for a restaurant rather than a bar, because while he can still drink in a restaurant, he’ll at least feel self-conscious enough not to get shitfaced. Tony’s isn’t far and he hasn’t had pizza in a few weeks. Maybe he’ll try another of their house pizzas.

The streets are quiet. What little traffic there is takes off for busier roads, and more people are departing the area than stopping in to eat as restaurants close for the evening. There’s only one other pedestrian along this path. An old instinct tells Hank to be concerned, but he shrugs it off. It’s just some guy. He’s not going to get mugged, and if he did, he wouldn’t have much to give. Not a lot of point in carrying more cash than ones for tips, nowadays.

That turns out to be a mistake.

The stranger bumps into him from the side. Hank has a curse at the tip of his tongue and is about to tell him to watch where he’s going, but the stranger continues to push and Hank lets it happen, caught off-guard and worried about keeping his balance. He stumbles once they’re in the alleyway, taking a few steps backwards. “Hey, the fuck are you—”

Hank’s pushed against the brick wall behind him and the cold edge of a blade presses against his throat. “Stay quiet,” the stranger commands. “I need you to come with me. I’d rather do this with as little bloodshed as possible.”

This close, Hank can see his face. Forties or fifties, he guesses, with a short, brown beard and a wicked scar on the edge of his cheek. His coat is thin but long, unseasonal for this time of year even in the cool evening. “I got nothing on me,” Hank says. “Ten bucks, maybe a pack of gum.”

The stranger turns him around roughly, pressing his face to the bricks. Cuffs clink together as they’re drawn from a pocket. “I won’t hesitate to tranq you, mutt.”

If the other guy didn’t have a knife, Hank would be moving by now. As it is, he’d rather not get gutted; he’s out of shape and unarmed. “Think you got the wrong guy, pal. I’m just a librarian.” He doesn’t recognize this guy from his old job, but that doesn’t mean he can rule out the possibility of revenge. “You wanna talk this out over pizza?”

And oh, God, Hank’s head hurts when it’s slammed against the wall, cuts stinging on one cheek and bone on the other side aching from the punch. He tastes blood in his mouth and groans.

“Tell you what,” the stranger whispers in his ear, clicking the cuffs closed. “Tell me about your pack and I’ll take it easy on you.”

“Tell you about my what?”

“Your pack.”

“Buddy, I’m not packing anything.”

He’s pulled back from the wall by his wrists. The knife is pressed against his side. “Be a good doggy and don’t shout, got it?”

“Sure thing.” Hank struggles to get a handle on his rising distress in order to think clearly. There aren’t any security cameras in the area, that much he knows, and if there’s nobody on the sidewalk, he may be out of luck. Things aren’t looking good. At least the guy wants him as a hostage and hasn’t left him for dead. Yet.

His chances look best if he does as he’s told. He lets the stranger push him further into the alleyway, straining to see anyone else out there in the dark, but there’s nothing.

Hank has the sudden thought that he could really die out here tonight, and he doesn’t like it. For all that he’s toyed with his life in the past few years, he’s got something to live for now. There’s Sumo, of course, but Connor has brought a light into his world that went missing, and the thought of leaving him alone makes Hank ache. Connor wouldn’t even know what decision Hank would have made if he died here.

Hank’s still thinking about that decision, but he wants to make it on his own terms.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by the sound of something soft on the ground behind them. By the way the stranger stops, he hears it, too, and both of them turn their heads to see what’s there.

All he sees is a glint of light before the stranger is gone from his side.

A huge white dog slams the stranger into the wall and fiercely scratches his chest, tearing the fabric and drawing a concerning amount of blood. It jumps backwards as the stranger lashes out with a knife. He switches it to his left hand and reaches into his coat, never taking his eye off of the dog, and Hank knows he’s going for a gun.

There are two dark shapes at the entrance to the alley, one tall and one very short.

Hank’s mind is yelling at him to run, to get away from his captor and this canine with claws from hell, which is now standing on its hind feet like a bear. There’s not much he can do with his hands behind his back. The situation’s escalating, there are civilians, and he wishes he were with Connor, safe and sound.

The wolf—which it has to be, at that size—darts forward and bites the hand going for the gun. That leaves it wide open for the knife. The gash is brutal. Hank hears a squeak from the end of the alley, and he wills himself to move. Where to, he doesn’t know; he can’t flee, but neither can he get in the middle of this deadly fight.

Turns out he doesn’t have to. The wolf headbutts the stranger, the first and second times leaving him dazed, before the third lands with a resounding crack. The man’s body slides to the ground, leaving behind a wet streak on the bricks, and the wolf looks first towards the two onlookers, then at Hank. Its muzzle is stained red.

It steps closer. Hank can’t run, not when he’d be caught and his hands are bound. He anticipates the worst.

All it does is sniff him closely before backing off. It limps towards the people at the end, who take that as their cue and meet it halfway.

Up close and out of danger, it’s easier to see them even in the dim light. The taller one is a man built like a truck, and the smaller a girl, both of whom kneel to check on the wolf and ask if it’s okay.

After a brief look at the wolf’s wounds, the man looks up at Hank. “Are you injured?” he asks and steps over to the unconscious man, rifling through his pockets.

“Nah.” Hank’s cheek and head hurt, adrenaline makes his heart race, and the craving for a drink simmers inside him, but he can’t focus on any of those now. “Should probably call this in or something.”

“We’ll call an ambulance, don’t you worry.” He unlocks the cuffs, then raises them up to better catch the lamplight. “Silver. No wonder.” He drops them to the ground.

There’s evidence of their presence all around, between the blood and the fingerprints. Namely, Hank’s. “What are the chances this guy reports getting assaulted by your, uh, pet?”

“Her name is Kara,” he says quickly, “and mine is Luther. Hunters like him don’t go to the police. It isn’t their style. Come on, we should get out of here. Alice, can you help Kara?”

Alice nods. She fists a hand in Kara’s mane as they walk towards the street. The wolf limps slightly, but aside from the bleeding, which is concerning on its own, she seems to be doing alright.

Hank shakes himself out of his daze and follows behind Luther. “What’s the guy hunt? Drunks? I don’t know what the hell he wanted with me.”

“Werewolves, vampires, demons. Anything supernatural. I don’t know if this one’s in it for the money, glory, or some moral crusade.” Luther looks at him appraisingly. “What are you? You didn’t react to the silver.”

Hank snorts. “Human. Don’t tell me this guy’s deluded himself into thinking those things are real.”

“You don’t need to believe me. He must have thought you were one of them.” They stop beside a car in the street, which Luther unlocks. “You should probably get home before the ambulance gets here if you want to avoid any questions.”

Alice opens the back door to let Kara in, but the wolf whines, nudging at Hank’s hand before looking at Luther expectantly.

“You want him to come with us?” Luther asks. Kara wags her tail in response.

This guy’s seriously talking to his wolf like this? Hank raises his hands. “No, thanks. I gotta grab dinner, get home, hit the hay. Long day today, you know?” It’s too strange. First the mugging, then the killer wolf, now whatever Luther’s on about.

Kara whines and licks his hand, inadvertently smearing blood on it, and that just makes Hank feel worse.

“She thinks you should,” Luther says. Kara finally gives in to Alice’s attempts at getting her into the car, willingly climbing into the backseat with the kid. “Maybe she has an idea why you were targeted.”

“Kinda does fuck-all when she can’t speak, if I’m gonna be honest with you.”

“Do you want to find out or not?”

There isn’t anything about this situation that feels right. It’s like his world has been tilted and things no longer make sense. He would chalk it up entirely to adrenaline and fatigue, but he can’t deny the intelligent wolf-creature and her hand-like paws, the things the stranger said, or the conviction in Luther’s voice.

He doesn’t want to go with Luther, but if he walks away from this, he’s leaving a mystery unsolved and a man bleeding on the street for reasons he’ll never know.

“Fine.” Hank walks around to the passenger side of the car. If nothing else, he can find out what sort of species Kara is. “But I’m gonna order delivery because I’m fucking starving.”

There’s a gasp in the back seat. Hank whirls around, instantly alert, but Alice hides her face in Kara’s fur.

Luther laughs quietly. “Watch your language. We wouldn’t want to have to put you in time out.” He looks over his shoulder to check for traffic. “What’s your name?”

“Hank.”

“Hank. Mind ordering us some pepperoni?”

There’s a muffled ‘pizzaaa’ from the back seat.

Hank sighs. “Sure thing,” he says, opening the app on his phone. He has no idea what to expect tonight, but he hopes the decision to hop into a stranger’s car doesn’t bite him in the ass.

* * *

They arrive at Luther’s house ten minutes later. Alice guides the wolf inside as Luther holds the door open. Hank follows. “You know how to treat her?” he asks. He’d assume a vet would prescribe antibiotics and treat the wound effectively, but it doesn’t seem like Luther’s interested in involving a professional.

“Yes. Join them in the living room. I need to get the first aid kit.”

It’s awkward to sit there with the kid and the wolf, and even more so when Luther joins, hands shaking despite his confidence as he gets started on cleaning and stitching Kara’s wound. A reprieve comes in the form of pizza, and Hank shares the table with Alice until Luther returns from washing his hands.

Luther helps himself and sits between them. It’s quiet until a cracking noise sounds from the bedroom, and Hank realizes the wolf is out of sight.

“Should someone check on that?” he asks. He knows firsthand the mischief a pet can get into.

Luther just smiles at him.

The sound doesn’t happen again, so Hank dismisses it. “Why do you think I may have been targeted?” he asks instead, wiping his hands on a napkin.

“Not me. Kara,” Luther corrects.

“Kara, who’s currently inside a closed room. Last I checked, she didn’t have thumbs or speak English, so I think we need more than that.”

“It’s been a stressful night. I’ll forgive you for not looking closer, but she does, in fact, have thumbs.”

Hank snorts. “Yeah, Christ, what are you—”

“He’s right,” interrupts another voice. A woman enters the kitchen, making a beeline for the pizza. “I have thumbs.”

“I was talking about the wolf,” Hank says, turning to look at her. “I didn’t know someone else was here. I’m Hank.”

“Kara.”

“Yeah, the wolf, Kara.”

“No, I’m Kara.” There’s a grin in her eyes. “I assumed you knew about werewolves,” she says through a mouthful of pizza.

Hank rolls his eyes. “Very funny. Luther, come on. What was up with that guy? You called him a hunter?”

Kara wolfs down her first piece of pizza, then sits at the table with another slice on a napkin. “Luther told you the truth: The guy hunts supernatural beings.” She pulls aside the collar of her button-down shirt, which already has a couple buttons undone, to reveal the bandage on her right shoulder.

It’s the same place where the wolf was injured.

“And you’re claiming you’re one of them.”

“I’m definitely one of them.”

“I hate to break it to you, but a coincidental injury doesn’t cut it,” Hank says. He wonders if they’re playing it up for the kid, but she looks far more interested in the pizza, eating it in such a way that extends the stretchy cheese as much as possible between the slice and the bites she takes.

“No, she is definitely a werewolf,” Luther says. Hank opens his mouth to protest, but Kara raises her hand, setting her elbow on the table, and then there’s a horrid crunching sound.

And her bones _move._

Hank flinches, but he stares, transfixed, watching as her hand makes the impossible transformation into a furry, giant paw, one that’s too big for her arm. Wicked claws flex from her fingertips and soft pads emerge among the surface. Her thumb withdraws up her forearm, misaligned with the rest of the fingers, and all of the fingers are unusually long and flexible for their canine appearance.

It’s a viscerally uncomfortable demonstration. Alice doesn’t even react.

“Nice party trick,” Hank says, his voice threatening to crack.

Then the reverse happens, and her hand is human again, like nothing even happened.

“Weird if you were targeted without realizing it, but I guess that happened,” Kara says before inhaling more food.

“That… didn’t happen. Your hand didn’t do that.”

“Mom’s a werewolf, Mr. Hank. She’s not a liar,” Alice says.

“And what does that make you, huh? Are you also a werewolf?” Hank asks.

Alice nods solemnly.

“Alice…” Kara starts, but Luther gives her a look and she sighs. “I suspect you were assaulted because of your association with another werewolf. You carry a scent that’s been rubbed off on you. It’s faint, like it tends to be when we’re in human form, but you must have a close association with one that was noticed by this hunter. It’s probably someone you work with.”

“You think werewolves exist,” Hank says slowly, “and that I work with one. Or talked with one at the library.”

“Do you really think that’s a stretch?” Luther asks.

It tracks with what his assailant was going on about, making dog-related comments and asking about Hank’s ‘pack.’ “He thought I was a werewolf. Why?”

“You’re big and hairy,” Alice says matter-of-factly. She wipes her hands on a napkin. “Are we gonna watch a movie tonight?”

“Why don’t you go pick one out? We can put it on after we’ve finished talking to Hank,” Kara suggests, and Alice takes off, a tablet in her hand within moments.

Something about the scene squeezes Hank’s heart, but he shoves it aside before the pain can grow. “Assuming you’re telling the truth, why would I be attacked?”

Luther leans back in his chair. “There’s every sort of reasoning these people come up with: that werewolves are godless creatures, bloodthirsty monsters, or otherwise causing trouble for society. Some buy into the myth that wolves can turn others with just a bite. In truth, they’re as varied as anyone else. Something about your association with others must have made them think you were one as well, so they turned their hostility onto you.”

“You should keep an eye out. Both for yourself and your friends,” Kara adds, as if Hank wasn’t already going to be hyper aware after this incident.

“Should I steer clear of silver, too?” Hank thinks back to the silver handcuffs Luther tossed aside. He must be human, then—and God, that’s an odd thought to have. He needs to sit down and spend a good while thinking about all of this when he gets home.

“Yes. Hopefully there isn’t another hunter on your tail, but these guys work in pairs. Safety in numbers, you know.”

“Alright, sure.” Hank nods, and he sure as hell doesn’t believe this shit, but he can’t help asking questions. When in Rome, or something. “Do you have a pack, or is it just your family? Is pack the right word?”

Kara hesitates before answering. “Sort of. It’s complicated. Loosely defined, rather. There are other werewolves in Detroit that I consider my pack, but it doesn’t need to be just werewolves, and it’s not all werewolves in the area.”

“Like a found family,” Luther says. “It can be chosen and earned, and the definition changes from one person to the next.”

“Right. If you were a dear friend, we might call you pack, but others may not. Luther and Alice are my immediate family, so anyone who considers me part of their pack counts them as well,” Kara says.

“Good to know,” Hank says. He can confidently say he doesn’t know any werewolves that well, so the hunter must have been completely mistaken about his closeness to someone else. If werewolves are real, it was probably a guest at the library.

Part of him takes these people at their word. Another, more rational part says that’s impossible, and he’ll realize just how impossible it is once he leaves. He has some answers, but so many more questions have emerged from that can of worms.

They exchange numbers and Kara promises to send him some Werewolf 101 materials, after getting his word that he won’t go talking about werewolves to the world at large (something which he has no plans to do, ever). His mind doesn’t get any clearer after returning home, and he pours himself a drink after letting Sumo out back, almost forgetting what he was so worried about earlier in the day.

Right. Connor, pregnancy, alcoholism. He’s doing them all a disservice by turning to the bottle now, but his mind is swimming too much to care. It takes him an hour of drinking before he finally gets around to washing up, cleaning the blood and debris from his bruised face.

He texts Connor a heart emoji before bed. It won’t fix anything, but it makes him feel a little better, and hopefully it warms Connor, too.

* * *

Connor twists and fidgets with the coin in his hand, which is the only thing keeping him from downing his coffee in a fit of nerves. The warm June day is bright and sunny, bringing plenty of people out and about in the city. The table he sits at, outside with tall chairs, is perfect for people-watching. He’s spent so many afternoons sitting here with his laptop open watching the scenery instead of doing his work. Even now he wishes he could escape into the fantasies his mind conjures about the people around him, avoid reality just a little bit longer.

“Connor! It’s so good to see you.”

Connor takes a deep breath. When he turns, Amanda is there, taking the seat across from him. There’s a coffee waiting for her atop the table. “Amanda. How have you been? Did the semester end well?”

“The usual. A research project that’s taking longer than anticipated. Students I’m proud of, and a couple who ended the semester in tears. No failing grades in the senior courses, I’m happy to say.” She takes a drink of her coffee, closing her eyes and smiling. “How about yourself? The full moon was a few days ago. Did you have a good time?”

“It was good weather. I think everyone was out that night, from wolves to the natural inhabitants. I managed to watch a family of deer for a short while. They didn’t even notice I was there.” Connor’s smile falters. “We didn’t encounter any hunters, but I heard last night there’s one in town.”

Amanda’s eyebrows knit together. “Is that what this is about?”

“No. We can manage hunters; this one’s nothing new.” He pockets the coin and wraps his hands around his coffee instead. “You remember when I said I was seeing a guy? Hank?”

“The older man with the blue eyes. Hard to forget that. Is something going on?”

“We’re doing great, but something came up and he needs time to think about it.” He stalls by sipping his coffee, but Amanda doesn’t fill the silence with any words, waiting for him to continue. “Mom, I’m pregnant.”

Amanda’s face lights up. “Congratulations. That’s wonderful, Connor. Are you doing well? Is the baby healthy?”

“We’re all doing fine. And, uh, quintuplets.”

“That’s g—Quintuplets?” Amanda leans forward, one arm on the table.

Connor nods. “Five babies. I was surprised, but it’s normal for us. I mean, I was surprised I got pregnant in the first place, considering—well. We weren’t planning on it. Aiden and Silas already know. Turns out they could tell,” he says, tapping his nose. “I’m due October 12, according to Simon.”

“That’s a remarkably short time. Did you get a checkup from an actual doctor?”

“There isn’t one. It has to be someone who knows, and Simon has experience. He knows what he’s doing.” Connor is not entirely confident in Simon’s expertise, but he’s the only option available. The kids may not appear human on an ultrasound and the gestation period is ten weeks shorter, which is not something he can explain to a human doctor.

“Five,” she says in awe. “You’ll have your work cut out for you. I had my hands full with just the three of you, and you were already in grade school by then. Babies are a whole other matter.”

“I’m sure not knowing what we were made things that much harder.”

“You’re the ones who had to hide that. It hurt you more than it did me. Your teen years, on the other hand…”

“I hear every parent hates those,” Connor says wryly.

“Not every parent has kids running into the woods a few nights a month,” Amanda points out, which Connor acknowledges this with a nod. The three of them were a rowdy lot and Connor was a wild one. He’s fortunate he didn’t get pregnant back then.

“I’m completely unprepared for these kids, but I’m committed. I just hope Hank will be as well.”

“Do you love him?” Amanda asks. The question is gentle, but her eyes are intense, filled with tens of other unasked questions.

“I can’t force him to stay, and he didn’t sign up for this. I made the decision to keep them myself. If I have to decide between them, then that decision’s already made.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Yeah.” Connor looks down at his coffee. “I like him a lot, but I don’t love him. Not yet. But I could. If he chooses to help me raise these kids, I really could.”

“Whatever the case, you know we’ll be there for you. Anything you need.”

“And keep me on track so I don’t turn out like my birth parents,” Connor says wryly.

The comment isn’t meant to be heavy, but Amanda’s face softens. “You’ve grown into a fine man, Connor. I don’t think you’ll have any problems being a good father, and if you do, we’ll be there to set you back on track. I can’t imagine you neglecting them the way your parents did you. You have a pack to support you now.”

“You’re right. But I worry, you know?”

“Every parent does.” Amanda leans back in her seat and drinks. “You’re going to do just fine. We should all get dinner to celebrate. What do you think?”

Connor taps a finger against the side of his cup. “Even Hank?”

“Hank’s invited, of course. This wouldn’t be happening without him. Oh, and undercooked meat is off the menu.”

“Mom.” Connor fixes her with a look. “Be reasonable.”

“It’s one meal, Connor, cooked by yours truly. No bleeding steak, no raw chicken, nothing that isn’t properly cooked and seasoned.”

“Fine, I’ll deal.” The thought of Hank meeting his family and being welcomed in Amanda’s house warms him despite the uncertainty. Even if Hank doesn’t accept the invitation, Amanda is ready to welcome him easily, and that means a lot. Hell, it’s reassuring that she’s happy about this news. “Thank you. You know I love you, right?”

“I love you too, dear. You and all your children. I just have one question.”

Connor sits up straight. “Yes?”

Amanda leans forward and lowers her voice. “Will they be puppies?”

A laugh escapes Connor. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s something I need to learn more about, but sometimes, they will be.”

“Perfect. I can’t wait to meet them.”

* * *

Hank cannot believe he’s about to meet Connor’s family. Everything is overwhelming, honestly, and while it’s one more stressor on the pile, it leaves him nervous and excited. Things are moving forward. He doesn’t have to stay stuck in the same dark place, fixating on the worst that could happen.

No matter what, he’s happy for Connor. It doesn’t feel like he can commit to raising children yet, but when Connor not-so-subtly alludes to that topic, Hank says he’s all in. He just prays he can manage it. Anything could go wrong, either with their parenting or their relationship, but if everything goes right… Shit, there’s gonna be five kids who could use two parents.

So he dresses up in slacks and a nice shirt. Connor’s wearing his nicest pair of jeans and a dark shirt when he stops by to pick up Hank, which reassures Hank of the expected dress code; he hasn’t been to any sort of dinners in a long while, outside of dates.

Connor makes a show of looking Hank up and down as he enters the car. “Good evening,” he says, sharing a tender smile. It might be cliché, but Hank would even say he glows, brimming with energy—nervous and otherwise. His pregnancy is showing now, the gentle curve of his belly pressing against the fabric of his shirt.

Five kids is gonna be hell on his back.

Hank’s done his research. Connor has to be around twelve to fourteen weeks to start showing now, which puts the due date around Christmas, unless they come early. He doesn’t let himself think about “what ifs.” If Connor has any complications, all they can do is prepare and deal with them when the time comes. It scares the hell out of him no matter what reassurances he tries to give himself.

None of that comes out. What Hank says instead is, “Hey, gorgeous,” leaning over to kiss Connor’s cheek. He smells of peppermint and deodorant. “I can’t wait to meet your family.”

“You’re nervous.”

“So are you. It’s at your parents’ house, right?”

Connor gives him a look he can’t decipher and shifts into drive. “My mother’s house. Doctor Amanda Stern. PhD in Machine Learning, not a medical doctor. She adopted us when we were eight. Aiden is helping her cook dinner.”

There may be a story behind Connor’s past, but it isn’t the right time to ask. They’re in a strange spot of moving too fast without having full trust in each other, and meeting the family is already on a level Hank didn’t expect to reach so quickly. Not that it was out of the question after five months together.

“Silas is your other brother, right?”

An affirmative hum from Connor as he turns a corner. “We’ve invited a few more guests. Simon, Kara, Silas’ boyfriend, my boss, a coworker, and a professor from the same university as Amanda.”

Hank stares at him. “I thought this was a small family thing.”

Connor shrugs. “They’re basically family.”

“Your boss is like family?”

“Not by virtue of being my boss. We’ve known each other a long time. Is this alright?”

“Yeah, no, it’s fine.” It’s horribly anxiety-inducing, is what it is, but that’s no different from when he thought it was just Connor’s immediate family. Now he’s going to get judged by more people.

Welcomed, not judged. This isn’t even about him. It’s about Connor and the babies, and Connor’s going to be the one with the most attention today. Hank can deal with a bit of nerves.

“I hope this doesn’t change how you think of me,” Connor says quietly.

“What, meeting your family?”

“Being pregnant. Having kids. I don’t have any reason to believe you would treat me differently, but the fact remains that I am different from most men, and I don’t have the privilege to forget that for any length of time.”

“You’re you. That’s never changing.” They haven’t talked much about Connor’s gender. It hasn’t been a relevant topic. “If I see you differently, it’s because you’re going to be a father. I don’t think of you as anything other than the man you are, and I promise I don’t think any less of you for not fitting into the norm. Everything you are makes you Connor, and I love that.”

A smile pulls at the edges of Connor’s lips and his face relaxes. “You love that?”

“I kinda like you, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I kinda like you, too.”

The drive to Amanda’s place isn’t much further. From the cars already parked at the end of the drive, it’s clear they’re not the first ones there.

Hank whistles when he sees the house. It’s a very nice neighborhood, and this house is no exception. The yard is well kept, with perfectly pruned bushes lining the side of the house and a maple tree standing tall in the middle of the lawn, its leaves a brilliant blend of red and green. A white gate blocks off the path around the house, beyond which he can see more foliage.

The car beeps and Connor joins him around the passenger side. “Well,” he says, flashing a nervous grin, “shall we?”

Hank squeezes his hand.

They walk together towards the entrance, hand in hand. The door opens before Connor can raise his hand to knock, and Hank has to blink a few times to reconcile the image before him.

“Oh, you’re here,” says a man who looks exactly like Connor. His voice is the same, and the smattering of freckles across his face is so similar, Hank wouldn’t have known the difference if he weren’t already holding Connor’s hand in his. “This is Hank?”

“Hank Anderson.” Hank holds out his free hand. “You must be one of Connor’s brothers.”

The brother’s handshake is firm. “Silas. Come on in. Dinner should be ready soon.”

The smells of roast beef and fresh herbs inside the house make Hank’s mouth water. “I didn’t know Connor had a twin. I guess multiples run in the family, huh?”

Silas shuffles them into the living room, where snacks are set out on the coffee table. “Triplets,” he says, shoving chips into his mouth. “Help yourself. I gotta go find the non-alcoholic wine.”

“It’s called grape juice,” comes a voice Hank never thought he’d have the misfortune of hearing again. Gavin Reed looks up from his phone at Silas, but his gaze quickly shifts to Hank. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Hank says.

“I thought I’d seen the last of you when you got fired. Didn’t know you knew these guys. You friends with Connor?”

Hank takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch, Connor hovering uncertainly nearby. “If that’s what we’re calling it nowadays.”

“Rivals? Frenemies? You don’t work at the law office, do you?”

“I’m sure you can put the pieces together.”

Gavin looks between the two of them and snickers. “Nah. You two? No way. Where’s your man at, Connor?”

Connor’s hand is a warm weight on Hank’s shoulder. “Is there a problem, Gavin?” Connor asks, voice even.

“Oh, shit. Is he… You two really…?”

“Don’t worry,” Hank says to Connor. “I’m familiar with his brand of assholery. Used to suffer through it every day.” He’s never had a good relationship with Gavin, and they were on awful terms when Hank left the force, but so long as Gavin isn’t chomping at the bit for a fight, there shouldn’t be anything to worry about.

For once, Gavin’s speechless. He stumbles over his words, ending with a mumbled, “Congratulations.”

Hank smiles up at Connor. “See? All good. Does your mom need any help in the kitchen?”

“Not from a guest,” Connor says.

“She asked me to help out,” Gavin grouses.

“You’re p—family. That’s on you for getting here early.” Connor squeezes Hank’s shoulder, and Hank pretends that being excluded from ‘family’ doesn’t hurt as much as it does. “I’ll go see if they need any help. You two make nice.”

Hank clings to Connor’s hand. “C’mon, don’t leave me alone with him.”

Connor’s eyes soften. “You can come find me if you need me. I won’t be far.”

With another glance at Gavin, Hank lets go, watching Connor depart for the kitchen.

It’s definitely awkward. Hank grabs a handful of chips. “You’re family, huh?”

“Yeah. Silas is my fiancé. We haven’t set a date yet.” He leans back, resting his arm across the back of the sofa. “Guess that means your pups are gonna be my nieces and nephews.”

“Jesus Christ. Just when I thought I’d gotten you out of my life,” Hank says good-naturedly. It might be his imagination, but Gavin seems less antagonistic than Hank remembers him being. Certainly his ribbing is more friendly.

As Hank munches on chips, he takes in the surroundings. This room is more lived in than the spotless entryway, with cozy seats and a couple of small tables sprawling across the cream carpet. Dark wooden bookcases stand against the pale green walls, filled with books that, at a glance, are sorted between fiction and nonfiction, probably with subdivisions among those categories. The seats are made with faux leather. A few books sit on a small side table and a fur blanket is draped over the back of the armchair in the corner.

“Don’t get weird about the fur, man.”

“I wasn’t going to. I don’t recognize it, though. Is it fake?”

“Nope. Seal.”

Hank raises his eyebrows. “Is that even legal?”

Gavin studies him for a moment. “Didn’t think that’s the question you’d ask.”

Something settles uncomfortably in Hank’s stomach, and it takes a few minutes before he recognizes what it is. All the things he knows and doesn’t know, and what may or may not be real, have been weighing on him since that night in the alleyway. If werewolves and vampires are real, what else? Fae? Magic? Sirens? The significance of a seal pelt in folklore doesn’t escape his notice, especially when he glances back to see that it’s not a tailored blanket as he first thought, but the skin itself.

It doesn’t have to mean anything. Probably doesn’t, nothing but his mind grasping at supernatural straws. But he knows Connor goes hunting on occasion with his brothers. Hank doubts they’d hunt a seal if they even found one, but the thought that Connor might be more akin to Hank’s assailant churns his gut.

His thoughts are interrupted as Connor returns from the kitchen, followed by a woman. She’s wearing an artistic blouse beneath an apron with a flower embroidered on it.

Hank stands automatically, holding out his hand. “Hank Anderson,” he says, shaking her hand firmly.

“Amanda Stern. I’m so glad you could make it.”

* * *

Meeting Connor’s family turns out to be less awkward than Hank thought it would be. Amanda is sweet, assuming nothing but the best of him (a marked difference from the parents of some of the girlfriends he’s had in the past). Silas hasn’t yet sat down to chat with Hank, but he doesn’t particularly seem to care about Hank’s involvement in all this, which honestly is a relief; Hank didn’t want to deal with a ton of pressure today, not when he’s just barely committed to raising the kids they’re celebrating. Markus and Josh are kind without being prying, and quickly excuse themselves as soon as Amanda requests help serving the food.

As for Aiden, Hank meets him when they’re seated across from each other at the dining table, the others all helping set the table and bring out the dishes. (Aside from Simon, who sits at the end with his nose buried in his phone. Hank vaguely recalls Connor mentioning Simon being a doctor.) The plates, silverware, glasses, and bottles of champagne (alcoholic and non-alcoholic) are already atop the white tablecloth. Wide windows take up space along one of the walls, allowing a view of the garden out the back. It’s filled with plants of all sorts and a pond in the middle with a few ducks floating lazily along. In the center of the pond, there’s an island with a trellis of roses on it.

Connor said his mother had a nice place, but Hank is realizing how much of an understatement that was.

Hank clears his throat. “So. I’m Hank Anderson. Connor’s boyfriend.”

“Aiden. It’s a pleasure,” Aiden says. He’s wearing a neat black polo, and he watches Hank’s face without making eye contact. “I noticed your scent before I realized Connor was here.”

“...Right. Cool.” Even though Aiden said it so politely, Hank makes a note to check his armpits when he gets the chance to slip off to the bathroom. “What do you do? Connor hasn’t told me much about you.”

“I’m a programmer for CyberLife. You could say I take after my mother in that regard. Mostly I work on appliances, but I may get the opportunity to work on our PetLife line when there’s an opening. I’d rather code a puppy than a coffee machine, you know?”

“You’re upgrading from fish, then?”

“Yes. It was announced last month after quarter end. I’m very excited to see how everything turns out. And, I’ll admit, I want a puppy of my own.” He grins like there’s some joke, and Hank grins back like he’s in on the joke, even though he’s realized Aiden can’t see him.

“Well, with five kids, I’m sure you’ll have your hands full as an uncle.” Hank glances over as Connor emerges from the kitchen with a couple dishes in his arms. “You cooked, Aiden?”

“Amanda and I did most of it.”

“It smells great,” Connor says. He stops on his way back to the kitchen just long enough to give Hank a kiss on the cheek. “You doing alright?”

“I’m doing fine, and I’m definitely not leaving before getting some of this food and plenty of embarrassing stories about you,” Hank says.

“Silas is the embarrassing one.”

Aiden perks up. “What about the time when you—”

“Aiden, shut the hell up.”

Hank chuckles. “I have no doubt the three of you could say so much shit about each other. Now go on, get some more food. I hope that beef tastes as good as it smells.”

“Yes, save that before Amanda puts it back in the oven,” Aiden adds. “It’s seared and rare, but she wanted it medium-well.”

“On it.”

“Christ. Is underdone meat a family thing?” Hank asks as Connor departs.

“No, it’s more of a—”

“Aiden,” Simon interrupts, finally looking up from his phone. “Connor hasn’t told him.”

Aiden stares at Simon. “You’re joking.”

“Afraid not. You could try to talk some sense into him.” The doorbell rings and Simon stands. “I’ll go get the door.”

A nervous feeling settles in Hank’s stomach. “Hasn’t told me what?”

“It’s not for me to say. You’ll have to ask Connor sometime,” Aiden says. He runs his thumb idly along the edge of his plate.

Hank wonders, then, if these guys are vampires. It would make sense, in some ways. The taste for blood, the seal pelt, the fancy mansion, and how damn ethereal this whole family is. Not to mention the full moon family gatherings Connor has. Hank’s not daft; he knows the monthly get-togethers follow the moon cycle. What doesn’t fit is Connor being as warm as he is and the ability to get pregnant, not to mention being outside in the sunlight, but the rest of it would fit perfectly. It’s not like he knows how many vampire myths are true, anyway.

“Hank?”

“Kara?” Hank asks. Simon’s returned with Kara and another woman with a braid over her shoulder. Hank about kicks himself for not noticing. Connor had mentioned a Kara could be here, but Hank didn’t expect this Kara. “Didn’t think I’d bump into you here.”

She’s looking at him with wide eyes. “I think I get it now.”

Hank squints at her. “Huh?”

“Uh, nevermind. Nice to see you. This is North.” The woman next to Kara gives a half-wave. “Does this mean you’re Connor’s boyfriend?”

“Yes, ma’am. Connor’s in the kitchen.”

“It’s busy in there. You should stay out here,” Aiden says.

Connor emerges with another couple plates, both of them hosting meat. “Kara! North! I’m so glad you could make it.” Silas and Josh follow soon after with their own plates.

“Yeah, well. Not every day your best friend gets knocked up.” North picks up an empty glass and raises it towards Connor. “Cheers.”

“That should be everything,” Amanda says, bringing another dish with Gavin and Markus behind her. She gives the beef—sliced and bleeding— a weary look. “Let’s all have a seat and dig in, shall we?”

Chatter stirs up as everyone helps themselves and talks amongst each other. Connor sits beside Hank, smiling at him warmly before digging in. The two of them both opt for non-alcoholic champagne. It’s a small choice and may not mean much in the end, but Hank is privately proud of that decision.

It becomes clear that Connor really is close to all of them. Everyone gets along great, leaving Hank feeling somewhat of an outsider despite the warm welcome he’s received. Still, he’s asked plenty of questions, getting poked and prodded by the whole family as they try to learn about him, though it doesn’t feel like an interrogation. It’s comfortable in the end, and the food is fantastic.

“Are you two planning a vacation before the babies arrive?” Amanda asks, spearing a piece of asparagus on her fork.

“We haven’t planned anything yet,” Connor says. The meat on his plate is too raw for Hank’s tastes, and he reminds himself to ask if Connor’s run his diet by his doctor yet. “Maybe we should. Enjoy our free time while it lasts.”

“They’ll be here before we know it, but we’ve got plenty of time. We’ve got, what, six months to go? Six and a half?” Hank says.

Connor shifts in his seat. “Four, actually. The due date is October 12.”

That shuts down every thought in Hank’s head. “What?” He could swear he did enough research to figure this out: What Connor would look like at each milestone and how much earlier those milestones come for multiples. It isn’t the same as asking Connor himself, but it shouldn’t have been that far off.

Connor’s smile is strained. “I should’ve told you, but that detail got away from me. I can show you the ultrasounds later, if you want.”

“That’ll teach me to ask a search engine before a doctor,” Hank says. Something about the date makes him uneasy. “October it is. Better start planning that vacation.”

“Have you picked out names yet? Are they going to match?” Markus asks. He’s barely touched the food, but given compliments to the chefs nonetheless.

Connor snorts. “Hell no. It’s annoying enough being named like your siblings, let alone having a similar name.”

“The names don’t have to be similar. They could be themed, like Remus, Peter—”

“Nope.” Connor holds up a finger. “Nuh-uh. Not doing that.”

“At least you’ve got back-ups in case you can’t decide,” Josh says, grinning.

“Thank you _so_ much.”

“I’m sure we’ll spend our entire hypothetical vacation stressing over names, cribs, and diaper brands. We’ll come up with something,” Hank says.

“Thank goodness I’ve never had to name a child,” Amanda says. “What about your family, Hank? Anyone else in the picture? Kids, siblings?”

God, that’s like a punch to the gut. It sucks all the cheer out of Hank, but he plasters a smile on his face. “I’m afraid it’s just me.”

There should have been Cole. His ex-wife left them and Hank ditched his relatives long ago, but he should have always had Cole in his life. The ache doesn’t rip him apart like it used to, but the wound is tender, especially now. Especially when he doesn’t expect to think about it.

Then he realizes: October 12, the due date, is the date after Cole’s death.

He takes a deep breath. It’s okay, he tells himself. It’s fine. There doesn’t need to be a connection if he doesn’t make one. He can feel his comfort fracturing, his mental stability threatening to fall apart, and only Connor’s hand against his bicep holds him together.

“—fresh blueberries, right?” Connor’s saying. Hank blinks, bringing himself back to the present. He looks around the room; only Gavin is watching him. Everyone else is paying attention to Connor, Aiden, or their plates.

Hank counts items in the room. Fluted glasses filled with wine. Half a slice of beef slathered in barbecue sauce. The earring in Josh’s ear. The sealskin draped across the back of Silas’ empty chair.

Silas returns moments later with a tray of three pies, followed by Simon carrying a stack of small plates. “Alright, guys, we’ve got blueberry, strawberry rhubarb, and a seasonally offensive pumpkin pie.” Silas sets them on the table, nudging the pumpkin one towards Aiden. “Bon appétit.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Aiden says, accepting his plate eagerly.

“Hey,” Connor says quietly. He takes Hank’s hand in his and laces their fingers together. “Still alright?”

Hank nods. “Yeah. I’m okay. I can’t leave without trying your family’s pies, anyway.”

“They are some pretty good pies.” He squeezes once more before letting go. “Thank you for coming. It means a lot to me.”

“We’re in this together now. I wouldn’t leave you to come alone.”

Connor pecks Hank on the lips. As he serves himself some pie, Hank squashes down the hurt inside of him to deal with later, when he’s alone or with Connor and definitely without alcohol, no matter how badly he wants to reach for it after the sharp pain today. He has too much good in his life to ignore it in favor of wallowing. He has to do better. For himself. For Connor.

For their kids.


	3. Chapter 3

Connor grows at an alarming rate over the next month. His belly practically balloons, the tiny bump turning into something people would ask to touch, and it comes with everything he could have expected: Back pain, stretch marks, and a ravenous appetite.

“I was thinking we could paint it blue,” he says between shoveling popcorn in his mouth. His fingers are greasy with butter and salt. “Some kind of soft powder blue. Robin’s egg. Sky blue. Whatever. It’s a nice, calm color and it matches your eyes.”

“It’d be a lot better than this beige,” Hank says, scrutinizing the room. It’s empty save for a single chair and a couple of shelves. All the other furniture from Connor’s former office has been relocated to the guest bedroom for the time being; the two of them still stink of sweat from the effort.

Connor offers the bowl to Hank, who shakes his head. “Light green would be refreshing.”

“Sure.”

“‘Sure,’” Connor echoes. “That’s what you’ve said about every idea I’ve had so far. Sure, this crib will work. Sure, the carpet doesn’t need replacing. Sure, these blankets look nice.” He looks up at Hank’s face while Hank’s half-looking away from him. “I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t value your input.”

Hank huffs. “It’s your house, Con,” he says, gaze fixed on the window. The white curtains will need to be replaced with something nicer.

“It’s more than that and you know it is. It’s where our kids are going to live and grow up. It’s where you’re going to visit and stay the night. It’s where you might live someday, too, if you want that. You’re always welcome here.” Connor steps in front of Hank, forcing Hank to look at him. “I know you’re worried, but I can’t help you if I don’t know what those worries are. Is it that you’re going to be a father? Is it the commitment? Are you worried about me?”

There’s a silence between them as Hank looks at him. Connor holds his gaze evenly while he resumes his snacking.

Eventually, Hank crosses his arms and speaks. “I’m angry,” he admits, voice little more than a whisper. “I want to snap at you and say this is all your problem. I want to run away and leave you with all the responsibility.”

“Well, you’re doing a shitty job of that,” Connor says, tamping down his own flare of anger in response to Hank’s words.

“But I’m not snapping at you and that’s good.” Hank unfolds his arms so he can talk with his hands. “It’s a low fucking bar to meet, I’ll admit, but I just… Shit.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m upset in a whole lot of ways, and I’ve… I’ve been drinking again. I need to be here for you—us, our family—but I’m not happy.” He winces and looks away, muttering something to himself.

“You sure don’t look happy,” Connor says, then he looks away, too. “That was low, I’m sorry.” He sets the bowl aside on one of the shelves and leans against the windowpane, sparing only a glance for the grassy backyard. “At least you’re being honest. Is it your depression?”

“Depression, PTSD, whatever you want to call it. The shrink didn’t give me a diagnosis. Yeah, I got myself into therapy, while you were away on your lunar picnic or whatever,” Hank grumbles. “Point is, I’m an emotional disaster. Bad shit keeps mixing up in my brain every single day. That’s not something I want to dump on you when we should be working on redecorating. I’m killing the mood here because all I can think about is waking up and finding one of the kids—” He takes a deep breath and rubs his hand over his mouth, thumb brushing against the wiry gray hairs of his beard, before starting to pace. “I’m pissed off that things are changing and that you’re a better man than I am. It’s not fair of me, but that’s how it is.”

It’s a significant turn from where Connor thought the day was going just ten minutes ago. He’s struck by how old Hank looks here in the future nursery, eyes sallow and beard untrimmed, hair growing out past its usual length. When they first started dating, he didn’t think Hank looked depressed, but he sees it now. “Then why come here today?”

“Because that’s the commitment I made. I said I’d be here for you and the kids, and I meant it. Fatherhood doesn’t get mental health days.”

“Listen, Hank. I get it. I appreciate the honesty. But you standing here and saying ‘sure’ to every suggestion isn’t much better than talking to a brick wall. This isn’t working for either of us,” Connor says, speaking gently lest he give the impression that he’s upset with Hank for being depressed.

Hank’s pacing slows to a stop. “Are you asking me to leave?”

“No! No,” Connor says, making a negative gesture with his hands. A lock of hair loosely slips forward to fall in front of his forehead. “Not unless you need to. I understand if you need to take a step back.”

“Not happening,” Hank says. Then, uncertainly: “But I will if you tell me to.”

Connor pinches the bridge of his nose. “I only mean that we should have an arrangement that works for both of us. We can take a break, get some coffee, then come back here. Or we could work this out on paper instead of this room. Please.” He stands up and crosses the distance between them, placing his hand on Hank’s shoulder. “Being in this together doesn’t mean you need to set aside your feelings. I’m just as dedicated to this as you are, in every way, and that means I will be here for you.”

Hank glances down then back up. “But you’re pregnant.”

A laugh bubbles out of Connor. “So?” he asks.

“Fuck, I didn’t mean—”

“You don’t want to bother me because I’m already managing this responsibility. I get it. But letting any bullshit build up like this is going to make me more stressed in the end.” He turns Hank’s chin to fully face him. “We can’t go into parenthood pretending and hiding things from each other.”

Hank gently grasps Connor’s wrist. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Okay.”

Connor presses his forehead against Hank’s and finds comfort in his warmth. “We should probably take a break, anyway. Grab some coffee and talk out how to make things work out. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect.”

Connor kisses him and then steps back, giving him a small smile before turning to grab his popcorn.

“You know, it’s a two-way street, Connor.”

He pauses, hand stopping halfway in the air. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You tell me,” Hank says as he exits the room.

Connor grabs the bowl and hurriedly follows him out. He’s running out of time to tell Hank and he knows it. He can’t ever forget how clever Hank is. His sharpness as a detective may have dulled over the years, but it’s still a part of him. Whatever Hank knows, he’s clearly putting the pieces together.

He’ll tell him soon, Connor promises silently. Before the next full moon. He’s put it off for far too long.

* * *

The feeling that he’s missing something gnaws at Hank. As the next full moon approaches (and he feels like he’s finally lost it, tracking moon phases like they chart his life), he digs into any resources he can find. His spare time at work is spent working his way through the metaphysical section. The search history on his laptop at home is filled with hundreds of queries on werewolves, vampires, selkies, and a dozen other creatures that may or may not exist. It’s led him down a rabbit hole of folk stories, cryptid sightings, and otherkin forums, all of which has left him more confused than when he started out. When he hears howling at night, he can’t tell if it’s coyotes or werewolves, and when he spots pedestrians as he leaves after his late shifts, he’s wary that any one of them could be a vampire or a hunter.

Making sense of this new reality isn’t easy, given that he has barely any interaction with these supernatural beings. He refuses to call Kara and Luther just to grill them about this, so while they’ve met a couple of times since the party, they haven’t discussed it.

And Connor…

The more Hank thinks about it, the more he’s certain Connor is involved somehow. The thought that he may not be human is hard to stomach, but Connor is clearly hiding his supernatural connections, whether he’s a human among Kara’s pack or something else entirely. The ever-present fur in Connor’s house just about confirms he has frequent werewolf guests..

“Dog-sitting my ass,” he mutters into the night air. His boyfriend even vacuumed last time Hank came over.

If only Connor would tell him the truth.

Sumo leads him through the park at a leisurely pace. Hank hates to admit it, but he hasn’t been taking Sumo out for walks nearly as much as he should and now they’re both tired and out of shape. The nighttime walks were a suggestion from his therapist as a way to put off drinking. While he gripes about it, he has to admit that it works. By the time he gets home, he’s usually tired enough to head straight to bed or only has the time for a couple of drinks.

Not that he said as much to Connor. No, he said “I’m drinking again,” followed by “I fucked up” and “I’m working on it,” none of which encapsulates the depth of his messy thoughts and actions. Connor deserves to know but Hank doesn’t know how to tell him.

At least it’s honesty, he reminds himself pettily.

With a burst of energy, Sumo tugs him forward like he’s caught sight of a squirrel. “Easy,” Hank says, holding the leash taut. “Don’t need you running off on me. It’s too damn dark for that.” The area is plenty well lit between the lights on both sides of the river and Sumo’s wearing his reflective collar, so there’s little to be worried about as long as they stay on the path. Ten minutes and they’ll be back at the car, ready to drive home and pass out. Hank reached his tipping point halfway through the walk and he’s planning to hit the hay the minute they get home.

Stubbornly, Sumo continues to pull him along, straining to run off. He even lets out a whine. Hank shushes him, though he does take a careful look around the area. “C’mon, boy, there’s nothing there. Whatever you’re smelling, it’s long gone.”

The evening is quiet. In the distance, late night traffic sounds, and there’s a boat on the river. The bustle of daytime is absent. Hank stops and listens, shushing Sumo again. As much as he strains, he can’t hear anything, and he’s about to chastise his dog when he hears a deep growl off to his left.

There’s something hiding among the trees.

“Come on,” Hank says quietly, tugging the leash. It’s probably a dog that got loose, but Hank doesn’t want to risk it. “Sumo, heel.”

It doesn’t seem to do him any good. Instead, Sumo barks, straining after whatever’s over there, and Hank grips the leash tightly as the growl sounds again. A voice follows, too quiet to be understood, and Hank has a sinking feeling in his gut.

“I need you to stay,” Hank says. He lets Sumo pull him forward only as far as the next bench, then ties the leash to it. “Stay,” he repeats. This time, Sumo gets the memo, looking up sadly at Hank and whining.

Hank turns, thumbing the silver knife in his pocket. Whatever’s in those trees, he hopes he doesn’t have to use the knife. Given that the low growling hasn’t stopped, that hope may be in vain.

He sees the human first: A man wearing a coat and gloves with blond hair slicked back and a smear of blood at his neck. He carries a knife in his hand—large enough to be called a dagger, really—slick with red blood. The man doesn’t even look at Hank. “You should go,” he says hoarsely. “I’ve got this rabid mutt under control.”

“Yeah? I thought poaching was illegal.” Hank steps forward to see the creature only feet away from the stranger, teeth bared and side wet with matted fur. The werewolf is huge, almost as tall on four legs as a human and more gangly than a wolf, easy to identify now that Hank knows what they look like. Given what he knows of canine body language, this one is defensive and deeply distressed.

“He’s nothing more than a pest. I mean it, man. Get out before you get hurt.”

The wolf snarls at that. He darts to the side, never breaking from the hunter’s gaze, and puts himself solidly in front of Hank. For a brief moment, Hank wonders if he smells Kara or her pack on him, but that thought is quickly overtaken by the sharp tang of blood in the air and the sight of another injury on the wolf’s left foreleg.

Hank was already biased towards the werewolf, but now he’s certain the hunter is the one causing trouble. “I’m with him,” he says, drawing his pocket knife, however much good it may do. “Two against one. Are those the kind of odds you want to take?”

The hunter takes a long look between the two of them before stepping back. He takes a cloth from his pocket and wipes down the blade, but neglects to sheathe it. “You’ll regret that decision,” he says, limping backwards without taking an eye off of them.

The wolf crouches low like he’s about to give chase, but Hank tentatively places a hand on his good leg, relieved when he doesn’t startle. “Take it easy,” he says. Fighting the hunter in this state would be too risky.

The growls don’t cease until the hunter is long gone, but no more blood is shed.

Hank doesn’t breathe easy until he’s sure they’re alone. The werewolf does the same, tension leaving and his growl trailing off as he finally turns to look up at Hank. The wound behind his left foreleg has left a grisly trail of blood in his fur, but he doesn’t whine or seem to want help. No, instead, the wolf just plods along, ready to leave Hank and nurse his wounds.

There’s no way that can go well whether he transforms and drives off or walks halfway through the city as a lanky wolf-beast. Hank bites his lip and tells himself he’ll regret this tomorrow, but he’ll regret it more if he doesn’t help. “Hey,” he calls out, then clears his throat. “Let me help you.”

The wolf looks back at him, eyes shining from the distant lamplight. “I know what you are. Obviously. I mean, I didn’t try to pick a fight with that guy for the hell of it, so. Look, if you need help with first aid, I’ve got experience. Not really with dogs—not that you are a dog—shit, dude, you need stitches. I can deal with that. I’ve got a car so you don’t have to skulk through the city. We can drive back to my place, patch you up, then do whatever the hell you want.” The wolf takes a few hesitant steps forward, and Hank says, “I know Kara. She saved my life.”

He’s not sure if that’s what wins him over, but the werewolf reaches him, pressing his big nose against Hank’s chest. Hank places his hand on top of his snout, suddenly concerned with the etiquette of petting werewolves. His eyes are brown, Hank notes, warm and soft and all too human. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says quietly.

Sumo takes a good couple of minutes to look over the strange wolf, sniffing and whining and wagging his tail so hard Hank’s worried he might tip over. Their new friend is patient and far less curious, and Hank thanks every god he knows of that the two get along. There isn’t even any concern over seating arrangements as the wolf gets the back seat (once Hank’s put down a blanket) and Sumo settles in on the floor beneath him.

The drive is a short one. Seven minutes and they’re home, Hank ferrying the two creatures in through the front door before the neighbors can get a good look. He locks the door once they’re all inside and flicks on the lights.

He suddenly wishes he hadn’t. Bright red pawprints decorate the carpet and the way the gashes shine at the wolf’s sides turns Hank’s stomach. He’s putting his faith in Hank to patch him up, though—and trusting a stranger at that—so Hank does his best to push aside his unease. “Home sweet home,” he says weakly.

Sumo, who typically makes a beeline for his food and water after a walk, instead tries to nudge the stranger towards the kitchen. The wolf simply watches Hank, which is unnerving on a level he hadn’t anticipated.

“Bathroom’s that way. Hop in the tub,” Hank says, pointing to the hall. “And bark once if you want painkillers. OTC only, I’m afraid.”

The sound he gets is more of a yip, but he takes it as a yes.

He downs a shot of whiskey to keep his hands steady and grabs the first aid kit, a bowl, and a bottle of water from the kitchen. Once in the bathroom, he does his best to calm Sumo before pushing him out and shutting the door, thankful that the dog doesn’t start howling his ass off. “He’s gonna be just fine,” Hank assures him.

The werewolf does not actually look fine. He’s held his composure so far, but the way he walks and breathes heavily shows he’s not doing too hot. Even lying in the tub, he’s trying to fidget, claws clacking against the hard surface. The awkward werewolf anatomy is stark under the bright lighting, from the paw-hands to the uncanny face, and Hank tries to focus anywhere but the nipples along his soft belly.

Hank pours out double the recommended dose of pills onto his hand. “How should I do this?”

A clawed hand stretches towards him, palm up. That solves the mystery of whether the paws actually function as hands, then, but Hank presses his lips into a thin line. The tacky blood on his claws probably came from the hunter. Not to mention the dirt. “On second thought, just open your mouth.”

The pills go down painlessly with some water, then Hank rolls up his sleeves and gets to work. He fills the bowl with water and carefully cleans the fur around the wound on the right hindleg. Once the worst of the mess is cleared, he has more access to the gash itself, which is neat from the sharpened blade that cut him. Fur sticks to the exposed flesh, but fortunately, there doesn’t appear to be any dirt. He pours water over the wound, eliciting a whine, before dabbing gently with the cloth.

“Now comes the hard part,” Hank says, spraying the bottle of antiseptic. The wolf flinches. “These stitches are gonna hurt. Do you want a towel or something to bite down on?”

He doesn’t get a response that time. The wolf eases his muscles, trying not to remain tense while Hank readies the needle. As long as the wolf doesn’t bite Hank, he’ll be fine. Those teeth are sharp, and Hank can’t say he’s confident about this, not having stitched many wounds before and none with fur involved. He thinks about calling Kara for help, then determines it’s too late and not worth it. He’s gotten this far already; he can’t go pushing the responsibility onto someone else. “Hold still for me,” he murmurs, then gets to work.

The task takes focus and patience for both of them. Hank keeps his hands from shaking as best he can despite the adrenaline and the werewolf minimizes his growls and whines while keeping still under his hands. It’s enough that Sumo whines from outside and paws at the door until the wound is sewn shut, but when it’s over, Hank breathes a sigh of relief. “Looks like we made it. Halfway there.”

He takes a moment to stretch his arms and hands while the wolf sits up, careful not to agitate his leg. He shifts in the tub, claw tips scraping against it, and leans forward to press his nose to Hank’s cheek.

It’s wet and uncomfortable. Dried flecks of blood that Hank hadn’t noticed before stick to the fur on his muzzle. “Don’t go getting too friendly. I’ve still gotta poke you again. And then,” he says, standing to rinse the cloth and get some fresh water, “I am getting drunk.”

The wolf whines emphatically. It’s enough to make Sumo bark, which in turn makes Hank groan. “Don’t judge me, alright? You’ve had your whole damn life to understand this werewolf shit. Forgive me for feeling a little off-kilter.”

When he kneels back down beside the tub, the werewolf licks his face. “Eugh, Christ. I get it, I get it; you’re thankful or annoyed. You’re welcome or I’m sorry. Y’know what? Both.” He dips the cloth in the bowl of water. “At least you eat your fucking Greenies.”

The arm wound is easier to deal with on account of the height, while the wolf is sitting up, though it’s obviously more tender. Hank mutters an apology as he works through the rinsing and stitching, wishing he could work faster but not wanting to fuck this up. It goes more quickly than the first, and when he’s done checking over his work, it simultaneously feels like he’s been doing this for only five minutes yet a number of hours.

“We made it.” He pats the wolf’s chest once, then stands to change the water in the bowl, filling it with hot soapy water before setting it in the tub. “Clean your paws off and we’ll be done.”

Watching the werewolf wash his paw-hands is a surreal experience—those hands are too uncanny—so he leaves him to it and finally exits the bathroom, grabbing Sumo by the collar on his way out and directing him towards the living room. “Give him some space, boy. He can’t handle your excitement right now.”

Hank pours himself a whisky and brings it to his lips. He pauses, cool glass on his lower lip. If his guest needs him, he can’t go falling down that road. He can’t do that to someone who’s depending on him. That’s what he tells himself when he sets the glass back down on the counter, slowly counting to five over and over again to fight off the desire to drink. All he needs to do is count five seconds at a time.

Eventually, the urge subsides and he turns from the glass, leaning back against the counter.

Down the hall, the bathroom door opens.

Despite Hank’s attempts to control Sumo, the dog fusses over the wolf the moment he comes into sight, tail wagging furiously as he sniffs over their guest. It’s only half a minute until the wolf nips at Sumo before making his way to the sofa, settling down with an _oomph._

“Yeah, go on, make yourself comfortable.” Hank looks around to confirm that all the curtains are closed. “Do you need me to call anyone? Friends, family? Wouldn’t want them to miss you.”

He gets a huff in response.

Hank pulls his phone out from his pocket. God, it’s past midnight. “I’m ordering a pizza before the place closes. Want anything?” The wolf raises his head and whines, ears back. “I don’t know if that’s yes, no, or what. Do you want wings?”

It takes him a moment, but he realizes that the wolf keeps looking between Hank and the fridge. “You want a homecooked meal? Hell no. I don’t have the energy for that. And no, I don’t have any raw meat.” He pinches his nose, then caves and opens his messaging app, sending Connor a text to see if he’s up. Werewolf situation or not, he’s stressed, and this stranger isn’t helping matters.

With input from the wolf, he caves, opting for groceries to be delivered. He has to call to get a rotisserie chicken—discount, a couple hours cold, but it’s only got salt and pepper seasoning and is better than anything raw—but he ends up getting food for them both. Premade salad and cold fried chicken might be a little better for him than pizza.

Hank pops the fried chicken into the microwave and grabs the rotisserie. “Where do you wanna eat, buddy?”

That gets him his first growl. He probably deserved that one.

The problem of table versus floor is solved when the werewolf sits beside the coffee table. He’s tall enough that it’s a bit awkward, but Hank shrugs and sets the box down, taking the lid off. “Bon appétit.”

Hank eats in the kitchen, watching from afar as the werewolf devours the chicken. The whole damn thing. He’s not a messy eater, but the claws and limited sideways jaw movement make it rather more feral than Hank’s comfortable with.

The groceries were probably a good thing, in hindsight. Hank’s not going to have awful indigestion, and he even stocked up on some fresh food for the fridge, including beef. If Connor stops by and wants a rare steak, Hank can do that for him. He pauses halfway through chewing at that thought, then dismisses the idea that Connor could be a vampire or werewolf. His mind’s just straining to make connections now that the world doesn’t make as much sense as it used to.

Hank drops a few napkins on the table for the werewolf. “I’m going to bed,” he announces. As much as he shouldn’t trust an unknown, deadly creature, he’s exhausted and doesn’t really care anymore. “If you shit in the yard, you better clean it up. Goodnight.”

He briefly dreads having to teach his future children that supernatural creatures are real, but the moment his head hits the pillow, he’s out like a light.

Some time later, he’s half-woken up by the creak of his door and what feels like Sumo settling in atop the covers. He mutters a sleepy “good boy” and pats his head, too tired to kick him out. The steady breathing and heartbeat beside him lull him back to sleep before he can think to open his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can find me on Twitter as @gildedfrost (18+), and I spend time in the [New ERA](https://discord.gg/2EKAAz3) DBH Discord server as well!


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